to her.

Suzanna looked up. She caught the deep and tender look in her mother's
face, so she voiced a plea which had been in her heart, but kept from
utterance in fear that she might ask too much.

"Mother, if we're going on a real picnic we ought to take the lame and
the halt with us. And I know a little girl who has cross eyes, and she's
a weeny bit pigeon-toed. She's the lame and the halt, isn't she? Because
when she looks at me I never think she is looking at me. I tried to
teach her one day how to look straight but it wouldn't do. Could I
invite her, do you think?"

"Where does she live?"

"Oh, just the other side of the fork road," Suzanna replied, pointing
out the direction. "If you'll go on I'll run and get Mabel and then
catch up with you. She's that new little girl. Her folks haven't lived
here long."

"Very well."

In a short-time Suzanna returned, holding tight to little Mabel's hand.
"I told her mother we had enough to eat with us and that we'd take good
care of her. So here she is," said Suzanna.

Little Mabel looked up obliquely at Mrs. Procter.

"Her hair doesn't grow thick around her face," said Suzanna a little
apologetically; "and I told her mother to rub Gray's ointment into it,
like you did for the dog that came off in spots. The one Peter found,
you remember."

"It didn't do any good--" began Maizie.

Mrs. Procter plunged in to prevent further discussion about the
unfortunate dog. "Do you think you can walk quite a distance, Mabel?"
she asked.

Mabel put her finger in her mouth.

"Don't talk to her right away, mother," begged Suzanna. "She's a little
bit shy."

So they went on, little Mabel contributing no word to the talk. They
passed fields full of yellow daisies and they walked by one group of
gentle, cud-chewing cows. "But I hope there'll be no cows in your woods,
Suzanna," said Mrs. Procter.

And her wish was granted. Indeed all, sky, flowers, breeze, absence of
dust and curious animals, helped to make this a day of days. When they
reached Suzanna's little patch of woods with many spreading oak trees
that invited rest beneath their sheltering branches Mrs. Procter
exclaimed in delight.

"Isn't it lovely, mother?" cried Suzanna. "See, there's a tiny brook,
too. I've been here often when I wanted to think of poetry."

"And I've never had time," her mother murmured.

"Now you just sit right down here with your back against this tree,"
Suzanna went on with a delicious air o